Sleepless Dreams
by Mylaea
Summary: Hermione reflects over her unrequited love, a love that was dormant until she was asked back to Hogwarts to teach...


I wrote this during an illness-induced bout of insomnia. You know I've been on this little laptop too long when I have imprints in my skin from it.  
  
In no way does Harry Potter belong to me, so you see, now you can't sue me.  
  
Thank you to a certain someone who unknowingly helped in the writing of this fic.  
  
Sleepless Dreams by: Mylaea Rawn  
  
~*~  
  
It was around Christmas of my seventh year when I first realized that my heart had been entranced. My mind began wandering away from the ever- familiar snowball fights and candy stores and strolled to cauldrons and bubbling potions. The week-long wait between classes was excruciating. I found myself looking forward to the dreary dampness of the dungeons, which had turned into a beautiful place of release- release from the strain of anxiously waiting for class. I would think about why this place of irritation and frustration had turned into a place I yearned to be.  
  
I realized one dreary morning that it wasn't the class itself, yet it did have something to do with the person teaching it.  
  
I began to not pay attention in class. Not like I ever needed to, but his watchful gaze over the students undoubtedly noticed the change in me. He notices everything. My mind wandered over a vast expanse of excuses. Excuses for my odd behavior and my new and entrancing attraction. Sometimes I would catch him gazing steadily at me, his fingers intricately folded under his chin. I supposed his role-playing for Voldemort had given him an extraordinary attention to detail, but some small, hopeful voice deep inside called out something different.  
  
My over-active imagination played out ludicrously impossible scenes, him and I like string puppets with my heart plucking at the strings, just as he unknowingly would pluck at my heart's strings. The slightest passing of the eyes, an accidental brush from his billowing robes, even an angered sneer would send my heart racing faster than a Roman chariot.  
  
I knew such a thing was forbidden, looked down on. Our age difference was considered preposterous, but I didn't care. I know from the start that it was unrequited love. I was a child to him, merely a nameless seven-year annoyance to be replaced by a new bushy-haired know-it-all.  
  
As graduation loomed closer, I began entertaining thoughts of throwing everything to the wind, of telling him how I felt, or even kissing him, but I am too much of a chicken. It passed without incident, with barely a glance in my direction from him. I went to an after-graduation wizarding facility and studied there for four years, much like a Muggle college. I had, by then, cleverly convinced by heart through many lectures and reprimands that he had no longer a place in my heart or mind, but I was irked to no end when something would remind me of him.  
  
About two weeks before I was to leave the learning facility, a letter arrived for me by owl. My heart leapt and my soul soared with hope at the sight of it, but common sense thankfully stepped in. It arrogantly gloated as the letter was from Dumbledore and not from some silly childhood crush. I smiled fondly, thinking of my old Headmaster. I respected his wisdom, his power, yet he was made human by his funny little quirks. He offered me a teaching position, and without much thought I hastily accepted, obviously this having nothing to do with that certain childhood crush.  
  
It had never occurred to me that I would be trapped in the titanic castle with him, his calm and quiet presence closing the walls in, making the terrific height of the walls and spreading expanse of the floor advance on me, so that I had no room. No room to run from him. No room to run from my feelings.  
  
I was unusually nervous as I walked up the steps that were worn down from the feet of infinite students. Earlier, the perfectionist side of me had roared mightily as I had spent hours in front of the mirror, making sure every last strand of hair was in place. I was led to my rooms, uncomfortably close to his quarters and yet not close enough. I was notified of a staff meeting, and due to my uncontrollably weak legs, I was late. I entered the room, my head held high, every inch conveying confidence- until I saw him.  
  
It took no time whatsoever for me to realize that I had never stopped loving him after all this time. Emotions flooded my being. To this day I am still astounded that I held up, not necessarily beautifully and smoothly, but I managed to even whisper a hello to him. He looks the same as before, but the aching tiredness that had always held his eyes zealously had tightened its grip. The steady gaze of his eyes unnerves and unsettles me, yet I long to plant a long line of kisses on his graceful nose, his aristocratic chin, and along his elegant neck. I force myself to pay attention to what Dumbledore is saying, although I can still feel him in the back of my mind.  
  
It takes an endless supply of willpower to walk into the Great Hall when I know he will be there, to stop by his office and notify him of a meeting, to even pass him in the corridor without pulling him into an embrace that would contain five years of restraint- an embrace that I'm sure would never end. I'm becoming almost an insomniac. I cannot fall into the blissful rest of sleep when my heart pulls with all its might toward the dungeons. He constantly haunts my conscious being, bittersweetly taking sleep and concentration from me.  
  
I have thought about approaching him, now that I have graduated and am no longer his student. I think about confessing everything to him, and if he were to refuse me, then I would go on with my life. But I know in my heart that I will never do these things. I am far too cautious; I have never really taken risks, even when I was romping around Hogwarts with Harry and Ron.  
  
I roll over and sink my head deeper into the pillow. I've been counting, but I'm at 437 and sleep does not even pass the doorway of my eyes. I try to think of other things, neutral things that won't weave an innocent- looking path, lined with silver and paved with gold. I dare not wander it, for I know of the pit of despair, heartbreak, and disappointment lies at the end. Right across the fathoms-deep gap but so agonizingly out of reach stands a man with jet-black hair, a hooked nose, and coal-black eyes.  
  
~*~ El fin de relato  
  
  
  
*** Thanks to all my readers (even if you don't review- trust me, I understand) of any of my stories.  
  
Hugs, horses, and Snape dolls to my beta readers: Ma-winn, Lar-wee, and Strega Brava  
  
Thanks to N'Sync, RCA (they make possessed portable CD players! DO NOT GET ONE), and my troubled little nerve somewhere in my head that's making me sick! I know N'Sync isn't the greatest band in the world, but "Gone" does have a tendency to help you write darker fics.  
  
And, even though you thought I forgot, your quote:  
  
"Don't blame me, blame Bernoulli." -from Foxtrot by Bill Amend 


End file.
